Ash Wednesday
by Mosteyn
Summary: A little domestic tale for Lady Sybil Lives day...


Tom had finally found his stride and was battering out his words on his old typewriter as fast as his fingers would let him. He smiled, satisfied at the way the carriage lurched to the left with every keystroke, his ideas forming a regular stream of ink on a sheet of grainy white paper. There was something about typescript that gave his words power, he mused - hand-written, his thoughts on the latest labour laws seemed the indulgent ramblings of a man with too much time on his hands, but in typescript, those same ideas took on a spare, ordered form that lent them substance, demanding that they be read. He pulled the carriage back on another paragraph and grinned, pleased at what he was seeing take shape on the page.

His appreciation of his own work was short-lived however; a crash and a yelp from downstairs made him jump. He looked up towards the doorway of the cubbyhole on the landing that served as his small study and peered through the bannisters to the hallway beneath.

"Sybil ? Is everything alright down there ?"

His rather harassed wife appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"I just knocked over the water from the mangle ! I've already washed the kitchen floor once today - it seems like I needn't have bothered. It's gone everywhere !"

The Bransons took their role as progressive employers seriously and as such, had given their devoted maid-of-all-work Doris the week off to visit her sister in Blackpool. It had taken Doris a while to understand what they were telling her - yes, she would be paid for the week and no, they didn't expect her to make the time up later. It was a holiday. For a week. To do with as she pleased. She'd thought they were mad at first, but then, she reflected, she knew that already. That was part of the reason she loved working for them.

Which is why Sybil was struggling to force their bedlinen through the temperamental mangle in their kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon after her early shift. Washing was something she hated. She'd spent her fair share of time in the laundry at the hospital in Dublin, hauling sheets out of the copper and running them through the mangle, reflecting that as a younger woman she'd had no idea who performed this task at Downton to ensure she had fresh sheets every few days. Whoever it was, she'd decided, they deserved at least twice what they were probably being paid. After they were married, she'd discovered that years in service had meant that Tom, too, had never had to wash his own linen. It left the pair of them inept at the task and disinclined to improve. Sybil had tried washing her husband's shirts only once; the warm dampness of drying cotton that had pervaded the whole of the flat soon drove them to send their laundry out.

Doris, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff, greeting every Monday with a ruthless efficiency when it came to shirts and sheets and nightdresses that quite frankly terrified Sybil. But she refused to admit that she was reliant on Doris. She was, she felt, a capable wife and mother, one who was not going to be defeated by a pile of Tom's grubby work shirts. So for this one week, she had to run the gauntlet of the ancient copper and her nemesis, the mangle. It explained why she wasn't in a good mood.

He heard her clattering about in the pantry where they kept the mops and brushes, making more noise about it than she strictly needed, her mood going from bad to worse. He was just about to start typing again when a great wail filled the hall beneath him. He looked up, wondering what his daughters had done now, then realised it wasn't Niamh or Aoife. It was their mother.

Sybil was still standing in the kitchen doorway when he appeared behind her, the pail in one hand and the other pushing her hair off her face. A black, sudsy liquid was forming pools on the kitchen floor, around a suspicious-looking grey island in the middle. Seated next to it, their feet bare, their dresses and almost every other part of them filthy, were his two small daughters.

"Look, Daddy !" cried Niamh, "we're making a sandcastle !"

It was ash. Ash from the pail that he had left by the back door after he'd set the fires that morning, meaning to take it out into the garden and throw it away. And had promptly forgotten about. When Sybil had spilt the washing water, Niamh and Aoife had eagerly taken off their shoes and socks and started to paddle the minute her back was turned. Then someone, presumably Niamh, had had discovered the ash. And if you were four, what were you going to do with it ?

Aoife, who up until this point had been mixing ash with water to form an inky black paste which she was happily smearing all over the floor, looked up and grinned at them. She'd even managed to get it in her hair.

With no response from either of their parents, Niamh went back to her castle.

"I think we need some more sand, Aoife," she said firmly and headed off to the ash pail.

Sybil blinked several times as if she were just coming round, her hand slipping from her forehead to cover her mouth.

"Look at this place ! It's filthy !"

She started to sob.

"Mummy ?" Niamh looked up, concerned.

Tom gathered her into his arms with soothing words and spoke to his children over her shoulder.

"What on earth are you doing ?"

"We went paddling, then we saw the sand ….."

"Its not sand, love, its ash ! Leave it alone - its dirty !"

"Oh."

Niamh looked dubiously at the pail, the shovel in both hands, not sure whether to ignore her father or not. Aoife was now dancing from puddle to puddle, kicking the dirty water every which way.

"Aoife ! Stop that at once ! You're making a mess !"

The baby of the family stood stock still and stared at him, more in reaction to his tone than his words. Without batting an eyelid, she carefully extended a toe.

"Aoife….." he warned.

Still with her eyes locked onto his, she placed her small foot deliberately in the middle of a puddle then squealed with laughter.

"What did I just tell you !" he roared. Niamh was so surprised she dropped the shovel and Sybil started, looking up in alarm. Aoife merely picked up her other foot and stood in the middle of the dirty water, grinning triumphantly at her father.

"Tom ! Don't shout at them !"

He looked incredulously at her.

"Did you see what she just did ? The cheeky little….."

He grabbed a nearby tea towel and held it out to them.

"Get over here, both of you, and wipe your feet. And don't touch anything ! God, will you look at this mess," he shook his head, wondering how two infants could cause such chaos so quickly.

A pair of chastised and grubby little girls pattered over to their parents, choosing wisely to go straight to their mother. Sybil pulled the cloth from his hand and bent to wipe their hands and feet.

"I thought you were going to take the ash outside," she muttered.

Tom sighed, his anger vanishing like the flame on a lit match in a draught.

"I'm sorry, love. I meant to do it after breakfast." He shook his head, surveying the carnage in the kitchen. "I forgot."

Sybil by now was sniffing away the last of her tears as she picked up Aoife's foot and wiped it clean.

"They didn't know they were being naughty. They were just playing." She smiled, stroking Aoife's filthy hair. "Weren't you, darlings ?"

Niamh nodded.

"We were just making a sandcastle. Like on the beach….."

"But this is the kitchen, darling. Not the beach. The beach is for outside. Now let's go and get you both clean."

Tom's mouth dropped open, astounded that his wife seemed to have forgiven them so easily. That was, of course, until she stood up and handed him the mop.

"You," she said icily, "can clean this up. I'm going to put them in the bath."

He couldn't really argue.

* * *

It took him some time and he was still trying to get the last Aoife's sludgy paste off the tiles when he realised Sybil was propped in the doorway, watching him with evident appreciation.

"You missed a bit."

He looked over his shoulder, still plying his mop.

"You're enjoying this," he accused.

"I've always enjoyed watching you work," she smirked.

He stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her, mop in hand.

"Are you flirting with me ?"

She smiled and sauntered over to him, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Hmmmm. Maybe….."

He frowned, recognising a look and a turn of phrase Sybil had picked up from him.

"What's got into you all of a sudden ?"

"Can't a woman watch her husband performing a domestic task ?" Her tone was innocent but the expression on her face anything but.

"Not if she wants him to finish it, she can't."

She pursued her lips.

"Well - I do want you to finish, so I'll just go back to the girls whilst you do just that."

She turned to go, but he stopped her.

"What are they doing ?"

"Drawing in the hall."

"How come they get off scot free for getting so filthy ?"

She turned back to him and sighed, her face becoming serious.

"I don't mind them getting dirty, Tom. I was never allowed to get dirty when I was a little girl. Once I was playing with the children at Laycock's farm and I fell in the pond. I got such a scolding and wasn't allowed out with the farm children for the rest of the summer. I used to watch them after Sunday School, running back over the fields enjoying themselves as we walked back to the house with Nanny. It was miserable. The only time I ever got dirty was when we hunted and that was always more Mary's thing than mine. I want our children to be freer than that."

"Free to make a mess," he muttered.

She folded her arms.

"Well, if you had taken the ash out they wouldn't have done it. They're only….."

He raised his hands in protest.

"I know, I know. They're only little. It's my own fault."

She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed the end of his nose.

"I'll make you some tea when you've finished, if you like," she promised.

"I think I deserve more than tea."

"Do you now ?" She seemed sceptical. "Hmmm. We'll have to see about that…."

He grinned and bent his head to kiss her properly, but was interrupted by a long drawn out howl from further down the hall.

"Mummy ! Aoife's spoilt my picture !"

Sounds of a scuffle followed, and hard on that, Aoife's piercing baby wail. Sybil rolled her eyes and sighed.

"I'd better go and stop them before someone gets hurt….."

And with that she disappeared.

Tom shook his head, his grin broadening. Her determination to bring up her children herself and give them the best of both their worlds made him so proud of her that sometimes it hurt. He was just about to pick up his mop and resume his task when she reappeared in the doorway.

"Promise me you will _never_ mention this to Granny !"


End file.
